Read Online Save the Children by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online
Authors: Don Pendleton
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure, Men's Adventure, det_action, Bolan; Mack (Fictitious character), organized crime, Kidnapping, Chicago (Ill.)
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separated them now.
Bolan saw that the injured gunner was no longer in sight; the guy must have slipped down onto the floorboards of the boat, he decided.
The second was twisting around in his seat now, lifting something, lining it up on Bolan's speedboat.
Grenade launcher!
The alarm went off in Bolan's head and he jerked the wheel all in the same instant.
With a whoosh, the grenade left its launcher and tore like a blazing comet through the night air toward him.
Bolan had the speedboat almost standing on its propeller as he zigzagged back and forth in an attempted evasive maneuver.
The grenade hissed past him, missing by several feet to starboard. The explosive plowed into the water and detonated, geysering a high fountain of water into the air.
Bolan felt the shock wave from the blast, but it caused no harm other than a sharp, high-speed lurch.
The distance between the boats was down to forty yards.
He slid the AutoMag from its holster again and lifted himself high enough in his seat to rest the stainless-steel barrel atop the boat's windshield.
The gunner in the lead boat dropped the grenade launcher and came up with a rifle.
Bolan was starting to wonder just how many weapons they had up there in that craft.
He triggered off a round from Big Thunder and was close enough now to see splinters fly as the slug impacted into the rear of the boat.
He wanted to disable the craft, to take at least one prisoner, but was not so sure he'd be able to.
If a round caught the gas tank, it would blow for certain, taking with it any chance of questioning these men who had tried to kill him.
Noise and flame leaped from the muzzle of the gunman's rifle.
Bolan heard the spang of the ricochet and saw the long ugly mark on the cowling of his speedboat where the slug hit.
Damn good shooting for a scared man in a fast-moving speedboat.
Bolan triggered the AutoMag again, not trying to hit anything, intending to keep that gunner too busy looking for cover to return any more fire.
Thirty yards between the boats now.
When he got close enough, he intended to take out the man at the controls, which would slow down the other vessel long enough for him to overtake it.
Twenty yards.
So far they had been lucky in not encountering any other traffic on the river.
The Michigan Avenue bridge was coming up quickly.
Both boats zoomed under the span.
Bolan glanced over at the south shore of the river, his attention caught by flashing lights.
Police cars were appearing on Wacker Drive, drawn by the inevitable reports of the battle at the yacht club and the speedboat chase down the river.
Ten yards between the boats.
He could see the hatred on the face of the man with the rifle as that punk raised his weapon for another shot.
Before that could happen, Bolan triggered the AutoMag again.
The guy spun around, crimson spurting from his shoulder as the massive slug pulped bone, shredded flesh. The man fell, twisted across the seat, slumping against the helmsman.
With a snarl of anger and fear, the boat's pilot shoved the injured gunner away from him.
Within seconds, Bolan would draw even with them.
But they weren't clearing the way fast enough.
The Mafia vessel threw spray high into the air as it banked sharply to avoid one of the large, slower craft, a commercial tour boat coming home from a cruise along the night-lit skyline.
Bolan saw scared, concerned faces of tourist passengers lining the deck of the tourer.
He yanked his boat on the opposite side from his quarry. He cut his speed, knowing he could not continue zipping along at this hammer-down pace, not with civilian craft about.
The pilot of the Mafia speedboat had no such qualms. Bolan heard screaming as the wake from the Mob boat capsized a little skiff. What they were doing out there at night, Bolan didn't know, but that didn't matter. He pointed the nose of his vessel in that direction and throttled back as he approached the overturned skiff.
Two heads bobbed in the
Bolan saw that the injured gunner was no longer in sight; the guy must have slipped down onto the floorboards of the boat, he decided.
The second was twisting around in his seat now, lifting something, lining it up on Bolan's speedboat.
Grenade launcher!
The alarm went off in Bolan's head and he jerked the wheel all in the same instant.
With a whoosh, the grenade left its launcher and tore like a blazing comet through the night air toward him.
Bolan had the speedboat almost standing on its propeller as he zigzagged back and forth in an attempted evasive maneuver.
The grenade hissed past him, missing by several feet to starboard. The explosive plowed into the water and detonated, geysering a high fountain of water into the air.
Bolan felt the shock wave from the blast, but it caused no harm other than a sharp, high-speed lurch.
The distance between the boats was down to forty yards.
He slid the AutoMag from its holster again and lifted himself high enough in his seat to rest the stainless-steel barrel atop the boat's windshield.
The gunner in the lead boat dropped the grenade launcher and came up with a rifle.
Bolan was starting to wonder just how many weapons they had up there in that craft.
He triggered off a round from Big Thunder and was close enough now to see splinters fly as the slug impacted into the rear of the boat.
He wanted to disable the craft, to take at least one prisoner, but was not so sure he'd be able to.
If a round caught the gas tank, it would blow for certain, taking with it any chance of questioning these men who had tried to kill him.
Noise and flame leaped from the muzzle of the gunman's rifle.
Bolan heard the spang of the ricochet and saw the long ugly mark on the cowling of his speedboat where the slug hit.
Damn good shooting for a scared man in a fast-moving speedboat.
Bolan triggered the AutoMag again, not trying to hit anything, intending to keep that gunner too busy looking for cover to return any more fire.
Thirty yards between the boats now.
When he got close enough, he intended to take out the man at the controls, which would slow down the other vessel long enough for him to overtake it.
Twenty yards.
So far they had been lucky in not encountering any other traffic on the river.
The Michigan Avenue bridge was coming up quickly.
Both boats zoomed under the span.
Bolan glanced over at the south shore of the river, his attention caught by flashing lights.
Police cars were appearing on Wacker Drive, drawn by the inevitable reports of the battle at the yacht club and the speedboat chase down the river.
Ten yards between the boats.
He could see the hatred on the face of the man with the rifle as that punk raised his weapon for another shot.
Before that could happen, Bolan triggered the AutoMag again.
The guy spun around, crimson spurting from his shoulder as the massive slug pulped bone, shredded flesh. The man fell, twisted across the seat, slumping against the helmsman.
With a snarl of anger and fear, the boat's pilot shoved the injured gunner away from him.
Within seconds, Bolan would draw even with them.
But they weren't clearing the way fast enough.
The Mafia vessel threw spray high into the air as it banked sharply to avoid one of the large, slower craft, a commercial tour boat coming home from a cruise along the night-lit skyline.
Bolan saw scared, concerned faces of tourist passengers lining the deck of the tourer.
He yanked his boat on the opposite side from his quarry. He cut his speed, knowing he could not continue zipping along at this hammer-down pace, not with civilian craft about.
The pilot of the Mafia speedboat had no such qualms. Bolan heard screaming as the wake from the Mob boat capsized a little skiff. What they were doing out there at night, Bolan didn't know, but that didn't matter. He pointed the nose of his vessel in that direction and throttled back as he approached the overturned skiff.
Two heads bobbed in the
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